


Resurrection of the Angels

by Robin_Purdy



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, Superwholock - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Drama, F/M, M/M, OOC John Watson, Other, Post Reichenbach, leviathan period
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Purdy/pseuds/Robin_Purdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Superwholock. Moriarty has a plan to bring Lucifer out of his cage. John Watson goes looking for Sebastian Moran and have revenge. The Doctor lets Sherlock tag along with him and Rose because everyone believes the detective's dead. Their paths will all soon cross...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is already on fanfiction.net, and yes, it is mine. I had two wonderful beta readers, winnywriter and zylstra. You can find them on ff.net.

It had been seven weeks, two days, and about ten minutes since Sherlock had fallen to his death. Seven weeks, three days, and one hour since John's world had been flipped upside-down and inside-out by Moriarty, Richard Brook, Kitty Reilly, and those who had chosen to listen to a world-class criminal instead of someone they knew and worked with. In other words, idiots.

The man sitting next to him looked as melancholy as John felt. He was a short, portly man who kept taking a sip of some alcoholic beverage and then glancing down to look at a picture of a very pretty woman. He reminded John of Stamford. John couldn't help but stare, remembering all the good times he and Stamford had shared at this very same bar, but soon the man noticed John watching and barked for John to 'back off' as he drunkenly got up from his seat and staggered out into the dark London streets.

John thought back to the day when Stamford had introduced him to Sherlock. If he hadn't of taken that walk in the park that one sunny morning, and if Stamford hadn't recognized him, would things be better? Would he be happier? Would it have been better to go through those months as a lonely, injured war veteran, or to have met that brilliant, intriguing, annoying man named Sherlock Holmes?

It surely would have been less painful to not have known him now, after Sherlock's suicide. _  
_

But no, he had decided. It was worth it, all of it. The pain, the suffering...He would endure a hundred more years of it to be able to see Sherlock popping up his collar, working on a case, or even putting random body parts everywhere in the flat.

John took another swig of beer and felt his mind go fuzzy, taking a small amount of the sense and pain away. He knew that Lestrade was going to be disappointed with him tomorrow, especially after he had explicitly warned him to stay far away from alcohol. But he didn't care about letting himself go anymore. He didn't care about anything anymore.

Except revenge.

* * *

_Meanwhile, in Denver, Colorado_

"Look at this, Dean," Sam said, throwing a newspaper down in front of his brother and pointing to a certain article. Dean finished his bite of an extra-large cheeseburger and chewed slowly, purposely trying to irritate Sam, before picking up the paper. Even though Dean didn't trust Sam whenever he said, "I'm fine," Dean still tried his best to bring a little light into the situation, which obviously meant annoying Sam. It was all in good fun anyway, Sam understood. In fact he preferred it this way, both of them ignoring his 'condition'.

Dean looked down at the article, and the first thing he noticed was the location. "That's in England, Sammy," he said. "What are we going to do? Drive across the ocean?" But that wouldn't work. The only way they could get overseas was by flying... Dean shivered inwardly.

"Never mind that, look at this Richard Brook guy," Sam said, pointing to a small headshot of a man with very sharp features, a stubbly chin, and a stupid grin on his face.

"What about him?" Dean asked, taking another bite of his cheeseburger.

Sam handed Dean another newspaper and pointed to a group photo taken at a Bee Gee's tribute band festival in Michigan.

"So, it's the same guy," Dean stated, wondering what was so important as he saw the same man in the background, smile replaced with a scowl. "He turned from Chuckles the Clown to Mr. Frowny. So what?"

"This was taken a day ago in Midland, Michigan," Sam said, pointing to the group photo. "He's supposed to have died seven weeks ago in London, England."

"So what do you think? Demon? Shapeshifter?" Dean listed the different possibilities on his fingers.

"Whatever it is, it likes to travel," Sam said, stuffing the newspapers into his bag.

"I'm just glad we don't have to fly to England," Dean grunted, mostly to himself, as he got up from the diner table. Sam couldn't help showing a smile, even though it was more of a half-hearted smirk, as he followed Dean to the Impala.

* * *

_About Seven Weeks Earlier, in London, England_

"Where do you want to go now?" the Doctor asked Rose as they stepped into the TARDIS.

"I don't care," she said, trying her best not to sound as horrible as she felt.

"Alright then," the Doctor said, flipping a switch and turning a few levers. "Something wrong?" he asked as he saw Rose plop down on the floor, face in her hands.

"No, not really," she said, voice muffled. She was silent, but after a few seconds she looked up and cried, "No, wait, I'm not. I just saw my Dad... _die_!" She sighed deeply as a tear threatened to fall.

The Doctor took the time to look up at her for a second, concerned, but quickly turned back to his work.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor said genuinely.

"For what? You didn't kill him," Rose said, swiping at a tear that had dared to spill over onto her cheek.

"But I brought you there. I let you... _watch_ him. New rule: no visiting anyone who is about to die-" The Doctor stopped, eyes suddenly wide, an idea forming inside his head. "Except for Sherlock Holmes!"

"Who?" Rose asked, her voice now nasally, but she didn't care.

"Only the world's greatest detective!" the Doctor shouted gleefully, turning one of the many levers that were part of the TARDIS. "Could you spin that?" he asked, gesturing to something on the console.

"Um, okay," Rose said, getting up, still not really sure who this 'Shurloch Homes' was. "Where is he about to die?"

"On the roof of St. Bart's hospital, in London, England. Except, the thing is, he  _isn't_." He punched in a few buttons.

"He isn't what?"

"He isn't going to die," the Doctor stated matter-of-factly.

"But you just said-"

"Never mind what I said! Now let's get this show on the road," he said with a giant smile.

The TARDIS landed, and Rose peered out of it into the streets.

"What's the year?"

"2012," the Doctor said, exiting the TARDIS looking proud of himself for thinking of coming here.

"It doesn't look that much... different," Rose said, a small frown tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know, I guess I had imagined that things would be different, like... flying cars..." she said, looking up at the sky as if to prove her point.

"In seven years? You dream big," the Doctor said, looking up at the sky too.

Rose shot him an indignant look before he could add, 'That's what I like about you'.

"Do you think Mickey is still living here?" Rose asked, wanting to change the subject. She always felt uncomfortable when the Doctor made fun of her, even in the slightest way.

"Yep, definitely," the Doctor said.

"Could we visit him?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"There isn't time," the Doctor said, taking Rose's arm in his own and guiding her to the hospital.

"That's a cruddy excuse, you have all the time in the world."

"The universe, actually, but who cares about that anyway?"

Rose sniffed, annoyed, and abandoned her attempt to argue with him. He was simply impossible.

"So what's up with this 'Shurloch Homes?' Who is he?"

"I already told you," the Doctor said, raising up an eyebrow, just like he always did when he was in a playful mood.

"So how does he 'not die?'"

"Shh!" The Doctor hissed, gesturing for her to keep her voice low as a small man in an oatmeal jumper ran past them.

"Don't want to ruin the surprise," the Doctor said. "Especially with him around." He jerked his thumb over to the man who had just passed, who currently was hailing a cab.

"Why? Who's he?"

"John Watson. Sherlock Holmes' best friend. Well, when I say friend..."

"What could he be besides a friend?"

"You see, Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends. Very difficult man to deal with-"

"-So like you," Rose said with a smile, receiving an incredulous look from the Doctor.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, nothing. Please continue."

The Doctor straightened up and made it a point to try to look anywhere but at Rose, his pride hurt.

"Anyway, John Watson is the closest thing Sherlock has to a friend: a colleague."

"A  _colleague_? That man needs to get out more."

"He already does. It's just that he usually picks up arch enemies instead."

For some reason, that didn't really surprise her. She had met enough strange things to accept that some people pick up more arch enemies than friends.

They were now standing by St. Bart's hospital. A coat flapped in the wind up above on the roof, and Rose wondered if this was the detective.

"He's already up there?" she asked.

"Yes. Having a bit of tiff with someone."

"Who?"

"An arch enemy, of course."

Rose and the Doctor stood watching for some movement for about five minutes before someone was swung over the edge, only being saved from a perilous fall by two strong arms.

"Oh my-"

"Don't worry, he's the bad guy. Besides, he doesn't die like that. He shoots himself in the mouth."

" _What?"_ Rose stared wide-eyed at the Doctor, trying to see if he was bluffing. He wasn't.

"You heard me, I'm not saying it again."

Five more minutes later, a gunshot came from the roof, making Rose jump and cover her mouth with her hand. As always, the Doctor had been right.

About a minute after that, a man stepped out onto the edge of the roof, coat billowing in the wind, a shiny object that looked like a mobile phone held up to his ear. Rose couldn't see much about the man other than that, except that he had handsome curly black hair and he seemed to be crying.

A car door slammed behind them and Rose turned to see John Watson running up to the hospital doors, mobile held up to his ear also, but something stopped him and made him turn around. Rose realized that it was probably Sherlock. He was talking to his colle- No, John Watson was his friend; she was sure of it, even if the Doctor had said otherwise. What else would you call the man you said your last words to?

Rose was so busy looking over at John that she didn't notice Sherlock had already jumped. The only thing that made her turn was John's desperate scream: "Sherlock!"

As she turned around, Sherlock landed on the ground like a rag doll only a few metres away from her, causing her heart to jump up into her throat, her stomach wringing itself into tight knots.


	2. Chapter 2

"Wasn't that brilliant?"

"'Brilliant' isn't exactly the word I would use," Rose said quietly, following the Doctor away from the gruesome scene they had just witnessed.

"You're right, Rose. 'Illustrious' is a much better word," the Doctor exclaimed, clapping his hands together.

"Did you see him?" Rose cried, her voice breaking a little as she waved her arm back to where a few nurses were briskly carting away the bloodied corpse, leaving the broken John Watson behind them, already forgotten by the other spectators.

"Yes, wonderful special effects. I should ask him later how he was able to-"

" _Not_ Sherlock!" Rose shrieked, stopping, her hands balled into fists. "John! Did you see him, Doctor? The look on his face?"

The Doctor's silence answered her question.

"He looked like  _he_ was dead. He looked like his whole world had ended, right then and there, like there was no more hope left." Rose was panting now, so consumed by John's reaction to Sherlock's death. "He looked worse than  _I_  did when my own father died. You keep talking about how wonderful and fantastic it was, with all the special effects and rubbish, but it wasn't, Doctor. It wasn't great or even good, because that man just lost his  _best friend."_

The Doctor was quiet during her entire speech, which struck Rose as odd. She usually couldn't get more than two sentences in before he interrupted.

An unnatural hush embraced upon them both, a kind of silence that Rose had never shared with the Doctor before.

"Have you ever lost anyone, Doctor?" Rose asked softly after a minute, finally beginning to calm down.

The Doctor looked at her, his light hazel eyes locked with her curious brown ones, and said with such sincerity and emotion that Rose would be a fool to question him about it again, "Everyone. Always."

It was only a second more before the Doctor turned away from Rose, breaking eye contact and entering St. Bart's Hospital without another word. It took a moment for Rose to finally come back to reality, still stunned by the Doctor's strange behaviour.

"Where're we going now?" Rose asked after she finally caught up to the Doctor, who was briskly walking down the hallway leading to the morgue.

"To see Sherlock," the Doctor said, back to his normal, excitable nature.

"We're going to see a rotting corpse?" Rose said, scrunching up her nose.

"For the tenth time, he's not dead. Besides, even if he was, his body wouldn't start to really decompose for a few days, not immediately after the fact."

"Yeah, yeah," Rose said, waving it off.

"Let's see... 'Molly Hooper, M.D., Head Pathologist'. This is it!" he exclaimed, opening the door and greeting the two stunned people inside with a wide grin.

"'Ello," he said, closing the door after both he and Rose entered. "Mr. Holmes, it's been the longest time since I've seen you. Terrific job you did out there, very exhilarating to watch."

The detective studied the Doctor carefully before he answered. "Well, it would have been even more spectacular if I had fooled you, but thank you."

"Sherlock-?" a fairly handsome woman asked from behind Sherlock. She seemed to be busy dressing a wound on his shoulder, but was getting distracted by the sudden entrance of the two time travelers.

"No, Molly, I do not know who these people are," Sherlock snapped. "What do you want? Are you with Moriarty? Only he would be clever enough to have someone to check if I were, in fact, dead, so his suicide wasn't in vain."

"There are a few other properly clever people in time and space," the Doctor said smoothly. "You of all people should know that, Sherly."

Sherlock's eyes widened when he recognized the nickname the Doctor had used. "Doctor?"

"Doctor who?" Molly asked.

"The one and only," the Doctor said, opening his arms joyfully, as if he was a showgirl presenting himself.

"You look different from the last time I saw you," Sherlock said, raising a curious eyebrow.

"I regenerated. Changes my face a bit."

"Ah. And who's this?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head stiffly towards Rose. Before she could open her mouth, he waved a hand at her and said, "No, no, no. Let me guess. Early twenties, medium intelligence, attractive features-" Molly blushed a dark red at this, "-and in excellent health. Good choice for a companion, Doctor, although I do know that I was the best."

"You were annoying at some times," the Doctor offered after a glance at Rose's indignant look.

"Mere details," Sherlock sighed. "So why are you here?"

"To congratulate you on your work," the Doctor said.

"Is that all? I would expect more from someone who just traveled through time and space from who-knows-where."

"It was only 25 years ago and not far from here," Rose said hotly.

Sherlock shot her a glare that she responded by sticking her tongue out at him.

"Please get to the point," Rose said, folding her arms over her chest.

"He doesn't need to," the Doctor said before Sherlock could give Rose another one of his snappy comebacks. "I know exactly what you're trying to ask without hurting your pride, so I'll save you the trouble. The answer is yes."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, letting down his usual cold facade and looking exactly like a child who was just handed an extremely large lollipop.

Rose and Molly glanced at the two men, both now completely lost.

"What?"

"Come now, Rose, isn't it obvious that Sherlock wants to tag along with us?"

"No."

"No what?"

"He's not coming along."

"Sure he's coming along!"

"Don't I get a say in this?" Rose asked angrily, really not wishing to spend any more time with this irritating man.

"My ship, my rules, and I say he comes with. Besides, what better place to be than the TARDIS when you're supposed to be dead?" the Doctor said with a smile. He turned on his heel, looking towards the pathologist. "Sorry, Molls, but you have to stay here and make people believe Sherlock is actually dead. Let me go get the TARDIS." He exited the room, smile still plastered on his face.

"Does he do this to you often?" Sherlock asked Rose with a smirk.

"Do what to me?" Rose snapped angrily.

"Totally ignore your opinion," Sherlock specified.

Rose glared at him, pouting because she realized that the Doctor  _did_ sometimes ignore her opinion.

"Look, I don't care if you come, just as long as you don't do that thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you open and close your mouth and sound comes out."

Sherlock was so deterred by the fact that she sounded almost exactly like John that he couldn't make a clever retort. When the TARDIS came, he abandoned all attempts to even try to counter her statement. It materialized inside the small office room, filling up the only space that was available. Molly had to contain her squeal of surprise as her eyes roamed over the alien blue police box.

"What-What is that?" she squeaked once she regained control of her senses moments later.

"The TARDIS, Molly," Sherlock said, following Rose inside. "Oh, and before I forget," he turned back to the very confused pathologist. "Could you please take care of John for me?"

Those were the last words Molly heard before the TARDIS disappeared with a great whirring sound, and perhaps the only time she would ever hear him say 'please'.

* * *

_Eight weeks later in Midland, Michigan_

"What are we doing here again?"

"We're working a case."

"Yeah, a case of mental instability. What the hell are those bozos wearing? A bird nest?"

"It's their hair, Dean. It's called an afro."

Dean cringed away from the crowd of people who were just exiting a performance at the Bee Gees Appreciation Celebration. Sam seemed to cope with the enthusiasts' unusual way of dressing better than Dean, who couldn't take his eyes off a particularly sparkly pair.

"What kind of music would drive someone to wear crap like that?" Dean asked, finally ungluing his eyes from the couple.

"Apparently disco," Sam replied.

"Come on, we've got a monster to track down," Dean said, lowering his eyes so he wouldn't have to see any more ridiculous outerwear.

"Does that look like him?" Sam asked after a while, not being as opposed to the clothing as Dean.

"Where?" Dean asked, looking up and soon regretting it. How tight could a guy's pants get before he was self conscious? Obviously for this fifty-year-old, it was tighter than a stretched rubber band.

"Over by the fence. He's the only normal-looking one here besides us."

"What, the dude in the suit?" Dean asked, squinting his eyes at the man. Sure enough, it was the guy in the picture. "Let's get this mess over with before happy hour at the local bar ends."

"Hey," Sam said, walking up to the man and pulled out a pen and pencil."Could we get a minute of your time? We write for the local newspaper and we were wondering if we could ask you a few questions about this 'Bee Gees Appreciation Ceremony.'"

The man, whose name they had guessed was Richard Brook, sighed and dramatically rolled his eyes. "I do enjoy the music," he answered finally, in a high sing-song voice. "But I have to admit, the outfits are dreadfully gaudy."

"Did you have to travel far to get here?"

"Went to Hell and back," Brook replied, making Dean and Sam shared glances.

"And yes, I do mean that literally. Time to stop playing, boys, Daddy's had enough now." Brook grinned widely as Dean and Sam's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Yes, I know who you are." His eyes flicked black. "Luci's told me  _all_ about the Winchester boys. And Dean, don't even think of throwing that holy water on me, it won't work. I'm too powerful."

"Who are you?" Sam asked, deciding that it was useless to fight and that the only way they would prevent death was stalling it by talking. Also, they didn't want to cause a panic by suddenly pulling out a gun and throwing Holy Water on a random bystander.

"Moriarty," the demon said, eyes going back to normal.

"You don't seem to act like a normal demon," Dean said, still wary, hand hovering over his gun.

"Are any demons normal, Dean?" Moriarty asked. "That was a rhetorical question, by the way."

Dean and Sam stared at Moriarty.

"I'm sorry," Moriarty said with a sigh. "I've just spent about a year playing with a man that never knew how to shut his trap. I've forgotten what it's like to talk to somewhat-normal humans. But that's beside the point. How did you find me? I tried to be careful hiding my tracks so hunters couldn't track me down. So, where did I slip up?"

"You didn't change vessels," Sam said. "You were supposed to be dead three weeks ago."

"Oh yes, in London. Oh well, I'll be sure to remember that in the future."

"What future?" Dean growled.

"Well, you  _are_ going to let me go, aren't you?" Moriarty purred, showing them a pair of puppy-eyes.

"Not a cow's chance in a meatshop, you hellspawn."

"Are we really going to start giving each other nicknames? Well then I vote Sam to be called Gigantor-"

"We're being serious, Moriarty," Dean said, hand now laying on his gun.

"Here, let me make you a deal. Either you let me go, or I kill you. Your choice."

Sam looked uneasily at Dean, but the older brother didn't see the look. "You're not going anywhere," he said, producing his gun from under his jacket.

"Fine," Moriarty said, snapping his fingers.

Dean found himself on a cold, damp, floor, his head going fuzzy, every cell in his body aching.

"Now for the fun to begin," the girly, evil, voice sang before Dean's world went into darkness.

* * *

_Meanwhile, in London, England_

**Moran, Sebastian Colonel**

Born in London, England, 22 June 1970.

Educated at Eton and Oxford.

For more on  **Moran, Sebastian Colonel** click here

John clicked on the link, and waited for the page to load, taking a sip of some strong coffee.

His flat was filthy; clothes that had not been cleaned for weeks were thrown every which way, the couch was stained with coffee, the furniture was covered with a thick layer of dust, and the faint smell of rotten food and black coffee hovered over it all like a swarm of flies. But it was all like Buckingham Palace compared to John himself.

He was a mess. A complete, utter mess.

Of course, he was pretending that he was fine. He pretended, but even an outsider would be aware that something was wrong. It would have been impossible to fool anyone, especially his friends.

He hadn't slept for days; the bags under his eyes certainly proved that. He hadn't left his dingy flat either, and everyone was too scared to visit him in fear he might throw a fit and blame Sherlock's death on them. This had already happened to Lestrade, Mycroft, and Donovan (who had just come a few days earlier to apologize but left within an inch of getting her head smacked by a frying pan.). He was only running on coffee. There hadn't been anything solid in his system for days, although he didn't feel hungry. Not for food, anyway.

He was hungry for revenge.  _ _Starving_  _for it. He had been off doing research on Moriarty's accomplices for who-knew-how-many hours straight, only getting up from it to refill his coffee mug.

It was pathetic. If he was in a right state of mind, he would think he was pathetic too. But he wasn't in a right state of mind, and that was the problem.

For the first time in weeks, his phone rang, and it actually startled him, causing him to spill coffee all over the table. He quickly scrambled over to his mobile, questioned to himself why Molly Hooper was calling him, and flipped it open.

"Molly?" His voice was hoarse and scratchy from disuse.

"Hello John," Molly said cheerily from the other end of the line, although she felt nowhere near cheery after hearing John's broken voice. "I was wondering if you wanted to have coffee today."

"Why?"

It took a while for Molly to respond. "I... I realized that you haven't gone out for a long time, and you might enjoy some time out of your flat, but if you don't want to-"

"No, I would enjoy going out," John said, not wanting to be rude. He looked at his now-empty mug and felt his stomach growl. "But, um... Could we make it dinner instead?"

"It's morning, John."

"Well, then... Breakfast! Yeah, breakfast. My treat. Sound good?"

"Yep. I'll meet you at your flat?"

John took a look around and saw the disparaging look of the place. "How about I meet you there. Does Tracy's sound good?"

"Delicious. Meet you in ten," she said, hanging up.

John scrambled to get on some decent clothes.

 


End file.
